Ballona Creek

If you're looking to read all about the horrors of radiation and how my skin was necrotic and peeling off like over BBQ'd chicken two weeks ago, you're going to be disappointed.  Because my life is great.  We are so over all that.  And I'm feeling good.

This is rapidly going to turn into a blog about cycling.  If you really couldn't care less about how much I love my bike, and how good I feel after a ride, and how I love my little Garmin computer, and how I'm actually really happy about my decently-paying job because I have realized it's not a means to a mortgage end, it's also a means to a bicyclist's goodies end, then hey... go find another blog to read. 

It seems I have turned into one of those entitled people who dares to do things for themselves on the weekends, instead of running around taking care of everyone else.  I feel oddly justified in wanting to be happy now, because happiness will promote health and, yessir, I now have a really good excuse to want to be healthy. So I'm paying for my goodies with my earned income, and I'm periodically taking time off from every one of my responsibilities to be happy and healthy.  I'm now one of those people riding a cool bike with the expensive (and well padded) bike shorts and all the gear and the little computer.  I'm exactly that kind of person.  And if anyone asks me what I did to deserve a little time in the sun, and how I get off doing things to make myself feel good these days... well, you know, they can just pucker up.

I was thinking it could just be the feeling that comes when you stop whacking yourself in the face with a ball peen hammer.  I mean, no matter how you felt about things before you started doing that, you're guaranteed to have a much more positive outlook on life the second you stop.  It could just be that not having people poisoning, radiating, cutting, or poking me on a nearly daily basis is enough to invoke some major euphoria.

Or it could be the bike.

Did I mention that I rode 22 miles today?  And that I'm training for a 25 mile ride in February?  Twenty-two miles is a whole fuck of a lot further than I have ridden in many many many years.  Or decades.  I used to bike a lot (for me) in the '80s.  (That would be in the century prior to this one.)  I was fit and felt great.  I had Centurion 10-speed and rode it all over the place.  Mainly Griffith Park.  I believe I took that bike on the longest "fun ride" I ever did, which was 50 miles.  Didn't really train for it and, yes, it was pretty fun, but I wasn't a serious cyclist.

Although, really... the way cyclists are serious these days absolutely didn't exist back then either.  I mean, back then, if you went really crazy, you could dump $500 into a bike that weighed about 10 pounds and was so cool you wouldn't dare ride it out on the actual street.  These days, you can't buy a tricycle for $500. 

Back then, if you wanted to really protect your nether parts (highly recommended) , you could buy some shorts with a little bit of padding.  These days, there are dozens of options of clothing: streamlined sleek duds that fit you like shark's skin and have all sorts of magic space-age properties.  They have built in compartments for your cell phone and slits for your ear buds and you are spared all the inconvenience of having actual pockets in your jeans for your keys.  Now you slip them into one of the secret compartments and proceed to slip through the air like a fucking stealth bomber.

I rode the bike path down by the beach today.  In the late afternoon sun, the sounds of the drum circles and the volleyball games and the beat boxes all stirred up into this absolutely serene distillation of the best of what it is like to live in Los Angeles.  It was like the gelato of the California dream... the absolute essence... perfect 65 degree temperature, the harmonies of people blending with that wacky edgy Grateful Dead throwback vibe that hasn't changed in decades, the endorphins kicking in from the ride... I passed people and grinned like a holy fool.  This is heaven, I thought.  This is where they got that concept. Someone rode their bike on this bike path through all these crazy people, and came up with this idea of an afterlife that feels just like this.

At first I was just going to go from above the Santa Monica pier down to the breakwater past the Marina and back.  That's my default loop and it's a good 15 miles.  I was excited because plans that were going to keep me indoors fell through today and I had a chance to continue my training.  Fifteen miles felt a little ambitious still, as I have only done two nine-milers since Christmas and, you know, cancer and all that.  But as I rode, I felt strong, and as I neared the breakwater I thought... hmmmm.... I could go another little bit past the breakwater, like 2 1/2 miles, and then come back.  Even if I felt super stupid and tired coming back, I'd have no choice... and then I'd have hit 20 miles. 

That was so very tempting, and I was feeling so very good still, that I did just that.  Went another couple and a half, stopped, took a little selfie to memorialize the moment, and turned around... into the wind.... and headed back.  Yeah... the way up and the way down are not the same on that trial, as I suddenly remembered, but I hunkered down, used my gears, and started the trudge north. 

I got back to the bridge, still feeling strong, and then pedaled back down the spine of the breakwater...just feeling so incredibly alive and healthy and vital.  So alive that when I saw the turnoff to the Ballona Creek path (that my son calls Baloney Creek), I decided to aw fuck it and took a small mid-way victory lap along the creek.  A mile up, a mile back.  The endorphins were now so potent I was kind of hallucinating.  The clouds were tinged with that bastard amber glow, orange and pink against the blue sky.  The sailboats were taking down their sails as they slid into the marina.  The birds flew overhead in a kind of Terrance Mallick magic hour insert shot, and my legs continued to pedal and carry us forward.

After awhile, you become fused with the bicycle.  My son Spencer says you become a centaur, head raised, tires spinning, slicing through space melding flesh with steel and rubber, almost capable of flight. I am certainly not a legitimate cyclist yet, but I am learning to ride my new bike.  I got to a point today where riding felt like the norm, and stopping felt awkward and weird.  Sure my neck hurt and I needed to blow my nose every mile or so.  And yes, it will be interesting to see what my muscles have to say to me tomorrow.  But while I was out there, it was like finding my wings again, remembering back to a time when life was truly alive, all senses attuned, body/mind/spirit in alignment.  Coming back I rode into the setting sun, my shadow flying behind me like a flag of victory.